


Open Skies

by Sampika



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Gen, Wing!lock AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-09-18 22:21:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9405527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sampika/pseuds/Sampika
Summary: Wing!lock AU. Sherlock enjoys the freedom of flying over the mountains during the night.





	

Sherlock gazed out at the rolling moors from his perch atop a large boulder, wearing nothing but flimsy cotton pajama bottoms. The moon’s light turned the fields of grass a blue-green silver hue that matched his stormy eyes. Stars gleamed brightly on the inky black canvas of the sky, magnificent and undiluted by the city lights of London as Sherlock was used to seeing it.

The moors rolled on for miles in front of him, the glowing speck on the horizon the only sign of a town or city and a dark swaying mass standing in as a silhouette in place of the green forests that could normally be seen in the daytime hours. Behind him, the moors quickly turned to hills, into cliffs, and then finally into towering, rocky mountains stretching up towards the moon and the stars, scraping the sky with their snowy peaks.

A lazy night breeze caressed the bare skin of his chest and back, and flowed through the mop of dark curls on his head, tiny hairs tickling the back of his neck and the tips of his ears.

Protruding from his back were two massive feathered wings, raven black feathers rustling from the breath of cold air gusting lightly around Sherlock. Each feather had a bright sheen of purples and blues and greens, transitioning between the colors depending on the way the moonlight shone on them.

Sherlock wiggled his toes and fingers in anticipation, the wind’s pace picking up into stronger and stronger gusts. Spreading his wings wide, he smiled, relishing the feel of the draft over his feathers and his skin.

Starting slowly, he gave his wings a couple of experimental flaps, each beat sending a rough gust of wind into the stone under his feet and lifting his heels off the rock. A few stronger beats of his wings and he lifted himself off the ground by a few inches and then lightly touched back down, before folding his wings back against his body.

Sherlock grinned, and made a leap of faith off the boulder he was perched on, and for a moment there was nothing but the distinct feeling of free-falling head first towards the ground settling deep in his stomach. The wind whipped around his face, buffeting his eardrums, and the ground was coming closer, closer…

At the last moment, he snapped his wings open to their full span, the appendages catching the air flow mid fall. Angling himself upwards, he lifted himself out of the fall and up towards the stars.

The breeze picked up, quickly transforming into a strong gale that threatened to carry him away on the sky. He smiled wider and let out a delighted whoop, flight being one of the rare times he actually showed the emotion of joy. It was so freeing to fly, to soar among the clouds and the birds, to feel the wind whipping around him as he touched the sky.

His wings seemed to move of their own free will, carrying him higher and higher into the night until the trees and the city and the rocks below him looked like ants.

With each flap of his wings, the muscles in his shoulders and back rippled under his skin, the pure force and power behind them visible for anyone to see, if they had the ability to fly with him and observe. Of course, nobody did. Only Sherlock had wings here.

He gazed downwards at the town on the moor, nothing more than a speck of shimmering lights from the streetlamps and car headlights and the glow of television screens bleeding through windows uncovered with curtains. None of them down there, with their tiny brains and limited capabilities and shortsighted view of the world would ever even suspect to go outside and look up; to see a man soaring through the sky, a man much more intelligent than any of them, even.

Sherlock angled his wings slightly downward, doing several spirals in the air as he descended towards the light of the town. Of course, he couldn't get too close. People might not exactly react well to seeing a man with wings.

Getting just low enough to see the important details, he leveled himself out and let the wind decide his flight, only flapping his wings once to balance his weight in the air. Observing the people of the town, he saw a night shift worker heading home to his evidently unhappy wife (who was most likely having an affair, based on the extra car in the driveway and the fact that most night shift workers are only halfway through their shift by this time); and he saw the butcher of the local market, outraged at the thief who was somehow stealing his stock, and the stray dog that appeared to be the thief. Sherlock smirked at how the dog outsmarted the shopkeeper, and kept gliding along to resist the urge to swoop down and pet the canine.

Other than the dog’s antics at the butcher shop, nothing else seemed interesting enough to keep him above the town. Sherlock pulled his wings back to stop himself gliding, but before gravity could make him fall out of the sky, he threw his head upwards to the clouds and flew straight up.

Spinning in the air to turn and face the mountains just as he reached the height of the clouds, Sherlock pressed his wings back against himself and fell into another downward dive towards the moor. Right before he crashed into the streets and the roofs of the houses, he opened his wings and allowed the updraft to carry him along the mountain side, angling himself almost entirely vertical along the steep cliff face until he reached the top, making several strong beats of his wings to regain lost speed once at the top.

It wasn't long before he was above the clouds again and soaring over the snow covered peaks of the mountains below him, the gleam left on the snow by the moonlight disappearing as his shadow raced over the ground. The frigidness of the air hit him like a wall, but the biting sting of frost barely registered with his brain. The winged detective was lost in the serenity and euphoria of the freedom of flight.

He soared for what seemed like an eternity of the serene mountain range, doing nothing other than watching the scenery whiz by and allowing his brain The night to take a break. Yes, he loved the work, and his mind could not go for long periods of time without something to occupy it, but every once in a blue moon his flights were an escape; a reset button to clear everything from his mind for a few hours.

When Sherlock finally touched his feet back on the ground, it was atop one of the taller mountains, and he plunged his bare toes into the blanket of snow covering the rocks. The cold normally would have sunk into his bones and left him numb, but he was already immune to the chill thanks to the wind that had been tearing across his skin for the past few hours.

The view from the mountain top was one most people would never see in person, the magnificence of the sprawling rocks and hills, covered by a layer of mist and fog hanging low in the sky, clinging to the cliff faces and snow covered mountain sides like a swatch of fabric clings to metal because of static electricity. He could see for miles in every direction, and noticed how the eastern horizon was growing lighter as the sun approached and the moon made its descent in the west.

The detective yawned and his wings sagged at his sides, weariness finally creeping into his body. The manic energy he had felt during the night slipped through his grasp, and Sherlock swayed on his feet as he fought to keep his eyes from drooping. His wings now felt like a burden, the massive, heavy, things nothing more than a weight pulling on his back. Perhaps it was time to head back home and crawl into his bed - which sounded far more appealing than curling up in the snow, bare except for his pajama bottoms.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock blinked, and the clouds and view of the vast mountain range was gone, replaced with the off-white color of the ceiling of his bedroom, and the wings at his back were replaced with his mattress and sheets. He sighed, relishing in the memory of the dream for just a few moments longer before storing it away in his mind palace, in the box with all the other occurrences of that dream.

The detective sat up, rolling his shoulders to try and displace the odd feeling of a weight on his back that lingered past the initial memory of his dream.

Deciding that it was time to start the day and see what case Lestrade might need his help with this time, Sherlock quickly got dressed and emerged from his room into the kitchen to make a cup of tea, pouring one for John as well, since he would come trudging down the steps any minute now.

After putting the kettle aside and preparing the cups of tea with milk and sugar, Sherlock’s phone buzzed in his pocket, and the detective fished it out to see Lestrade’s name on the caller ID. He quickly pressed the talk button and raised the phone to his ear.

“What have you got this morning?”

“Well, good morning to you too,” Greg scoffed, then got right to the point, “Double homicide, no suspects so far. Will you help?”

“I'll meet you in an hour.” With that, Sherlock promptly hung up and turned to greet John as he stumbled off the steps still half asleep, hair flattened against the right side of his head - the side John sleeps on more often, Sherlock noted.

"Morning," Sherlock said pleasantly, offering the tea to John.

The doctor sipped at the tea quietly while Sherlock eagerly told John about the case, “a double homicide, John! Not nearly as exciting as a triple homicide, but much more exciting than a simple thief or burglar.”

By the time he had come up with at least three different likely scenarios in his head while not even knowing the details of the murders, John had made and eaten breakfast, and was dressed and ready to leave.

Already prepared, as always, Sherlock paced in front of the stairwell impatiently as he waited for John to grab his coat.

Having run out of patience after a mere ten seconds, Sherlock called, "Come on, John!" as he shrugged his usual Belstaff coat on, tying his scarf on his way out the door. John grabbed his coat and turned to follow, but stopped at the sight of a raven black feather - which seemingly fell from Sherlock's coat - slowly drifting down towards the floor, the light bouncing off of it and giving the feather a blue-purple sheen.

He stared at the feather for a minute after it hit the floor, then bent down to scoop it up. It was soft, almost too soft to be a real feather. He twisted it between his fingers, watching the way it caught the early morning light filtering in through the windows.

Where had it come from? He was no expert, but it was much too large to be a raven or crow’s feather. As far as the doctor knew, there weren't possibly any birds large enough in England to have a feather that size, and even fewer to have feathers of that color.

"Hurry up!" Sherlock's shout came from the bottom of the stairs, where the detective was waiting, once again, impatiently for John to follow. John shook the thoughts from his head and set the feather down on the desk, quickly turning and heading down the steps to join Sherlock on their way to Scotland Yard.

The feather lingered in his mind a moment longer, but was nearly forgotten about by the time Sherlock had hailed a cab and the duo was on their way.

**Author's Note:**

> Left the ending open for you readers to decide: was it actually a dream, or did Sherlock just forget to put away a feather he picked up off the street somewhere for an experiment?


End file.
